


All is Well

by Sinderlin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drabble, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinderlin/pseuds/Sinderlin





	All is Well

Murder is a harsh word. Squashing an ant isn't murder. It's more like weeding. Definitely like weeding.  
He'd probably never get punished for it, either. Maybe some people would hate him. Maybe some people would applaud him.

He wasn't always so nonchalant about the whole affair. He used to make a night of it; take two or three down and pick up a trophy. It wasn't efficient, and he was always left feeling still angry and bitter, still unsatisfied and empty. It was all about the hunt and the kill then, unasked and unthanked and fully out of a sense of duty and hate.

He used to have a source of joy in his life, but one day she left and left a pile of broken glass in his chest and broken circuit in his head. He doesn't hate her, still misses her and assumes that stabbing jagged edge cutting through his chest and throat means he loved her. Loves her. Loves her to ragged bloody pieces.

Right at the end of dusk when the sun no longer blazes fiery reds across the sky and the night clouds are creeping in, he skulks into the cities for an early start, looking for people no one will miss. Maybe it makes him feel a little better to play at streetsweeping. People who don't fall for false promises and empty smiles fall down on their knees after an incapacitating blow. It's better to save the violence for later, though.

He can't remember the endless list of 'victims'. His killing ground has to be washed again and again, endlessly washed and scrubbed and bleached and re-stained. Some of the weeds do the work before they die. The front door hangs slightly crooked from when one was too much trouble to even get in the entrance. He slammed their head in the doorframe, smashed their skull with the heavy wooden door. All of the conscious ones get uneasy when they first see the door in all its perfect ominous glory.

He'll always remember the first, how he almost got away, how embarrassing and enraging that glaring fuckup was. But that's alright. It was only the first. He'd put double-locks on the inside of the door since, wears the keys around his neck on a chain along with the keys for all the rooms, took every obvious weapon out of the place and left it sparse and cold. He still has raised skin where that first one had caught him across the ribs with a broken broomhandle. Furious, frightened chocolate eyes screeched out horror and anguish and survival, the undying need to survive no matter the cost, right until the moment he resorted to a hole between those rich brown-irised eyes. Even staining the floor, that thin-lipped street-kid taunted his near failure and mocked his lack of finesse. Close quarters were only new for so long, though.

Another he remembered more fondly was a girl so much like his joy and hope of better days-no, they were never better days, only different ones. Her hair was long and thick and rich and smelled like an ocean breeze. She was laying on the beach like a mermaid out of water, full lips parted in a sleepy sigh. She was so far from home, she'd mentioned. She just wanted a moonlight walk on the shore, but her flush had left due to some slip of the tongue-a sinful mockery of Her face...He sweet-talked her into agreeing to stay the day at his hive. The one he found dormant on the edge of town. He almost lived there by then, only returning to his own home for supplies, sometimes food, sometimes sleep.

She hesitated at the door and he joked that the drones were sloppy and she bought it like a dumb hussy despite the wood splinters sticking out from the frame and the deep semi-oval groove. Her eyes were long-lashed and shiny, gorgeously dewy from the moment the last lock on the front door snapped shut. He joked it off again, security concerns, a bad area to live. Her lips parted and her brow furrowed dumbly as her brain struggled to choose between rejecting the quickly woven lies and accepting the firm, cool face that stared at her with upturned lips and enigmatic eyes. Her wetted eyes dried as his rough hand rubbed her shoulder and gently pressed her to his chest. He could feel her filthy heart pounding in the stiff, silent air. Glossy, lie-spouting lips curved and told him pretty, petty things up the stairs and into the room, as if she thought she would lead him. The lips spouted filth the second the door closed, liquid and physical, and he tutted as it hit the floor and spattered his shoes. Her shock left him time to lock up and kick the disgusting mockery of Her image to the ground. He savored her betrayed look, feeling a few shards of glass pluck themselves from his heart. He split her luscious lip, caked her cascading hair with blood, and broke that delicate hand that had caressed his face as if she knew him. When she passed, his cold rage subsided and he propped her in the closet, staring at the peaceful, wet face. Feathery lashes brushed along his finger like butterfly kisses when he wiped tear stains away. He folded her slender hands in her lap, the broken one under the undamaged. She looked like a carbon copy, a perfect effigy sent just for him. He kissed her bloody forehead and closed the closet door.

There were nails lost in hallways from crying and screaming and scraping and clawing away, and teeth in the corners from biting and fighting the inevitable. He had...  
Fun. Fun with the liars and the streetwalkers and the filth that crawled through the gutter and he dragged back by their hair. Every one of the seven deadly sins had made a trip through the crooked door and then some, but only pride came and went as it pleased. Wrath sometimes clawed its way back out with pride, but only rarely.

Another girl came willingly and before him. He opened the door with a skinny thing in tow and saw her sliding her hand thoughtfully up the wall, a bloody tooth in her calloused hand. He stopped with horror at her profile before him and quietly told the rake beside him to run and never come back. Alone and yet far from alone, hollow eyes woefully met his with cries of his every kill. Deafening silence was an appropriate turn of phrase. It was you, she calmly stated, waterfall of black hair tucked behind her ears, You trapped everyone here. They hurt so much even in death because of you, her fingers curled around the tooth and lips curled in a snarl. Another perfect face, but not nearly the same. It was somehow more comforting. He nodded sagely, as if thinking of an apology, and saw her anger rising. Her mouth opened to speak and got a fist in return, a taste of blood and the feel of sliced skin grating across her teeth. He always assumed he had been haunted by the dead for some time, he didn't need her to tell him that.

His comfortable new home, his cell of his own craftmanship, his new world was shattered like fine china on a moonless night with a crow on every corner. It was more than a metaphor his brain concocted to fabricate a purple prose version of his life as 'streetcleaner', it was the reality he'd always known would come but at what time he was never sure. It was always lonely scum, lonely lowly scum that couldn't fight back. He'd been approached before, even by thin boys with no apparent reason to want anything to do with a person like him. He'd never been conned before. He'd been lied to and seen through lies and repaid them happily so many times before it hurt to try to count them all. The boy--young man waited knowingly for the locks to be done up, for that smug smile to be put on, to be lead to a room not so far down the hall, to watch his host locking the door there with a far more cold smile than the first. Suddenly he was up against a wall with an invisible hand around his neck, his muscles taut and lungs shrieking in mere minutes. Fangs and anger and vengeance asserted themselves and poured richest blood across the stained and bleached and stained floor like a sluggish creek.

He coughed and sputtered and gagged, maybe sobbed, all to hear and smell and see his finale his piano sonata no.14 bubbling up from the deepest ocean, to taste his own blood for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, to taste a death and not a murder rolling across his tongue like a disparate tidal wave. His end didn't drag things out like he so loved to, merely split his belly and threw him at the door hard enough to crack it off its hinges. Rage was overwhelmed by loss and sadness in those eyes, pain like when his playmates had their nails ripped off or their arms bent back at unholy angles. His teeth soaked and stained in his blood and the old blood of others, he burbled and grinned, melodious moonlight sonata rolling through his skull as tears hit his face like liquid fire and firm physical hands found his neck and squeezed. His silent laugh and sob, his hate for the place he thought he loved, was all there was, hovering inside a corpse for the rest of his life among his favorite prizes, soaking into the floorboards, rolling in the deep.


End file.
